


A Seduction

by The_Wavesinger



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/F, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Misogyny, Númenor, Referenced Sibling Incest, Second Age, Seduction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-31
Updated: 2016-10-31
Packaged: 2018-08-24 10:45:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8369293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Wavesinger/pseuds/The_Wavesinger
Summary: Tar-Míriel attempts to take revenge on her husband by seducing his sister.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Maitimiel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maitimiel/gifts).



> It was difficult picking between your prompts, Maitimiel, but I settled on this in the end, and I hope you enjoy it!

Lôminzil's existence is a closely-guarded secret, known to only a select few.

Fortunately, Míriel is one of those _select few_. Your wife you hate knowing several of your secrets, Míriel thinks viciously, is an occupational hazard of forcing yourself onto the Ruling Queen in a farce that you pretend is marriage and then using said farce and massive political support in court to gain control of the throne.

These secrets she knows and the fact that he still needs an heir are probably the only reasons she hasn't ended up in seclusion in a country estate somewhere, hidden away from the world, so Míriel feels absolutely no guilt when she sets out to seduce the king's sister.

  

* * *

 

 

Pharazôn has secluded all his nasty secrets in one wing of the palace. Míriel gets taken out for public occasions, of course, but other than that, she's limited to this small area and its gardens.

The only upside is that these restrictions apply to Lôminzil, too, more so than to Míriel, even, which means that Míriel's plan is easily put into action.

(Míriel feels vaguely sorry for Lôminzil—it isn't _her_ fault that her mother was a woman of the Faithful, and very outspoken about her faith (Míriel doesn't want to think about how Gimilkhâd impregnated her), or that her brother's desire for control extends to all aspects of _her_ life. But—this isn't about Lôminzil. This is about Pharazôn. And if that makes Míriel a terrible person, so be it.)

  

* * *

 

 

Míriel chooses her clothes very, very carefully, clothes designed to display and flatter her body, clothes Pharazôn dislikes her wearing in public but won't forbid in private. Glimpses of her breast, her collarbone, the cloth draped over her body skilfully revealing and hiding by turns, just enough to tempt but not enough to satisfy—perfect, Míriel thinks, as her handmaidens finish dressing her.

She and Lôminzil take their meals together; Míriel had tried to talk to her several times before, but she'd only blushed and looked down. Now, that may work out in her favour.

Míriel is sure she doesn't imagine Lôminzil's rising colour and the way her eyes dart over the room as they finish their meal in silence, trying to look at anything but Míriel.

Míriel herself looks right at Lôminzil as she eats. She'd find her beautiful if it weren't for her startling resemblance to Pharazôn; her blue eyes are striking against her pink-tinged skin, her dark hair a cascade of curls down her neck. Her lips are plump and red, perhaps the only part of her that doesn't mirror her brother, and Míriel wonders, idly, what it would be like to kiss them.

She shakes herself, then. Being attracted to Lôminzil is useful, but she can't let that allow her focus to stray.

“Lôminzil,” Míriel asks, “would you like to come out to the garden with me?”

Lôminzil stares at Míriel, her eyes wide. “Y-your majesty?”

That, Míriel thinks absently, is probably the fifth or sixth sentence Lôminzil has spoken to her. Pity; her voice is quite melodic. “I'm Míriel, Lôminzil. There's no need for titles here.” Empty titles. But she pushes that bitterness away.

“M-míriel, then.” She's still stuttering, her blush growing. “I don't—”

“Come,” Míriel says firmly. “You've been here with me such a long time, but we haven't talked, not truly,” (not talked at all, more like, her mind provides) “and I'd like to get to know you.”

And before Lôminzil can protest, she takes her arm, and leads her outside.

  

* * *

 

 

Lôminzil is no more talkative in the gardens than inside the palace. She looks down at the ground, twisting her fingers nervously, and blushes every time Míriel touches her 'accidentally' (and Míriel, for her part, makes sure this happens often).

Míriel is left to make conversation alone. It's difficult, however, to talk of inane things when there is no response and you have precious little contact with the outside world to talk about. She can't, for obvious reasons, bring up the news Elendil and his people have managed to slip her or the information she's gleaned from her infrequent appearances (mostly at feasts and at ceremonies at the 'temple' Sauron has convinced Pharazôn to build in honour of Morgoth—the second leaves her ill for days afterwards, unable to erase screams and the smell of burning human flesh and of spilled blood from her memory), and there's only so long she can make vaguely suggestive comments about the gardens and the weather without a reaction from Lôminzil.

She drifts into silence, and lets touch do her work for her. Lôminzil is very responsive, shivering at the slightest brush of skin and blushing delightfully. Míriel finds that she's _enjoying_ this. Strange.

It's peaceful in the gardens, though, and Míriel can almost forget, for a moment, what's happening in the outside world and what she's doing now—

“What are you _doing_?” It's the anguished tone of Lôminzil's voice (louder than Míriel's ever heard it rise, though it's still soft) which pulls Míriel out of her reverie.

She blinks. “I'm sorry, I—”

“Stop!” Lôminzil exclaims, snatching her hand away from where Míriel's is brushing against it. “Stop that. You've never noticed my presence before; why are you suddenly clamouring to spend time with me?”

The outburst in unexpected, but Míriel remains collected; she's been trained all her life for a Queenship she never received, and that is one thing, at least, which she can do. “I have simply noticed that I've been ignoring you abominably in wallowing in my own misery, and I thought perhaps I could make up for it.”

Lôminzil's eyes soften for a moment, but then, “I'm sorry, but I simply can't believe you. We were here for years, and all that time when Pharazôn was in Ennor, too, but you make overtures _now_?”

“I tried, if you recall, in the beginning,” Míriel says, and makes her voice sound stiff. “And I thought I'd try again now.”

Lôminzil gets up and walks away.

  

* * *

 

 

The next day, Míriel tries harder.

Pharazôn had...visited her last night, and she's angry, angry and exhausted and broken, and she wants to _destroy_ Pharazôn, but she can't, so she'll destroy his sister instead.

And so she flirts aggressively, touches Lôminzil at every possible moment, makes suggestive remarks. And Lôminzil blushes and falters, but she doesn't respond, a complete withdrawal with no hint of the spirit and fire she'd shown the previous day.

That night, Míriel tears fiercely at her clothes. She _will_ succeed. She must.

  

* * *

 

 

But Lôminzil doesn't do anything beyond stuttering and blushing, and no matter how close Míriel leans in, no matter how much she touches her, no matter how innuendo-laden her comments are, Lôminzil doesn't show any sign of reciprocation.

And there are many things Míriel will do in the name of revenge, but violating someone who's unwilling is not one of them. Using Lôminzil, stringing her along, yes, but if she's completely unwilling, then Míriel will leave her alone.

She lets her flirting fade away, and doesn't realize how much she'd been relying on her plan of seduction for a _purpose_ until that purpose is gone.

 

* * *

 

 

“W-why did you stop?”

Lôminzil's soft voice startles Míriel out of the reverie she's sunk into over noonmeal, and she looks up sharply. Lôminzil blushes, but holds her gaze. “Why did you stop what you were doing?”

Míriel blinks. “Stop what?”

“The...”

Lôminzil makes a vague gesture, and, as comprehension dawns, Míriel feels a smile curling across her face. “So you do enjoy it after all.”

Lôminzil shakes her head. “N-no, I mean—”

“But you asked me why I stopped flirting with you,” Míriel says, and it's no accident that her foot brushes Lôminzil's under the table. “So—”

She's interrupted by Lôminzil's fork clattering to the ground as Lôminzil flees the room, again.

  

* * *

 

 

Míriel puzzles over Lôminzil's behaviour for a full day and a half.

She would have puzzled longer, but the second night, Pharazôn comes to her. And it's awful, it's always a terrible experience, and the herbs she's taken to prevent conception, to prevent _him_ winning, are cold comfort. The knowledge is there that this will not lead to more, but it does nothing to ease her through the violation.

And then he _stays_.

He always leaves right afterwards, but today, he stays. And Míriel shivers next to him as his clammy palms press into her back, and wishes for the night to be over.

  

* * *

 

 

He leaves the next morning, and Míriel feels unclean, _dirty_ , and there is anger bubbling under her skin, deep, fierce anger, and she knows she should wash away the echo of his touch and sleep, but she goes down for the morning meal nevertheless, and rage beats rhythm into the floor with every footstep.

Lôminzil is not there when she arrives; Míriel doesn't care. The food on her plate looks unappetizing, and when she attempts to take a bite, she gags. She wants to take the plate and smash it to bits and—

She throws it.

Míriel hurls the plate at a wall, and it shatters into tiny pieces, shards of glass raining onto the floor, food staining the wall (a nuisance for whoever will have to clean it out, Míriel thinks absently). It isn't satisfying at all.

“M-míriel?”

And Lôminzil. Damn her, she chooses _now_ of all times to—

“Míriel? W-what happened?”

Lôminzil is moving into Míriel's line of vision, and there's concern on her face. Míriel doesn't know what to do with concern, snarls “Go _away_.”

But Lôminzil doesn't go away; instead, she sits down, only next to Míriel instead of in her usual spot opposite her. “It couldn't have been h-h-im, I know, but something happened to make you upset, and—what was it?”

Míriel stares, her misery forgotten for a moment. “ _Him?_ ”

 “My brother,” Lôminzil says. “He didn't come to me last n-night, and he always does after he...f-finishes with you.”

And Míriel suddenly understands the implications, and oh. Oh _Eru_. She wants to be sick. She will be sick, and how could Pharazôn violate his own sister, how, and bile rises to her throat and sharp anger thrums in every vein of her body, a wave of rage roaring in her ears. The _bastard._

“Míriel,” Lôminzil says, again, and somehow, her blue eyes are right in front of Míriel's face, and then her hand is rising to touch Míriel's cheek, and she kisses Míriel.

Míriel responds, automatically, even as her mind stays numb, shocked. How—but why—

But Lôminzil's kissing her more fiercly, and Míriel responds, and all the anger aimed at Pharazôn comes roaring back and she pours the emotion into the kiss, and Lôminzil deepens the kiss in response, her tongue probing the deep parts of Míriel's mouth.

And then Míriel is sucking bruises across Lôminzil's collarbone, and they have enough presence of mind to stumble out of the dining room and into their private parlour as they undo each other's clothes.

Then Lôminzil is _touching_ her, kneading Míriel's nipple between her fingers, tracing the patterns of her ribcage, and Míriel responds with similar touches, and they're both trailing fingers down, down, down.

Míriel licks a trail down to Lôminzil's most secret places, dipping her mouth in her cleft, running her tongue across her wetness, lapping Lôminzil's mound in smooth circles. She relishes Lôminzil's taste—slightly salty—as the other woman shudders above her. And Míriel bites down, not too gently but not too harsh, on Lôminzil's mound, and she climaxes.

Then Lôminzil's hands are all over Míriel, and there are fingers right _there_ , and Míriel's nails scrape across Lôminzil's back as Lôminzil twists and turns and teases, just enough but not quite, and “please”, Míriel begs, and Lôminzil complies, and Míriel comes in a sharp burst of ecstasy.

  

* * *

 

 

Afterwards, they lie tangled on the carpet with Míriel's head on Lôminzil's stomach.

She will not use Lôminzil against Pharazôn. She cannot. And perhaps (and Míriel almost dares not hope) she and Lôminzil can build something here, and turn their anger into a seed of hope.


End file.
